It Will Come Back
by sad little tiger
Summary: Wesker learns that there is a thin line between destruction and creation. Piers finds that loyalty must be sacrificed for what the blood wants. Wesker x Piers. Post-RE6.


Hey Completely New Fandom People Who Don't Remember Me!

I haven't written in ages, and every time I read through this I have a different reaction to it ("Bad" and then "Not Bad At All"). It's a unique pairing. Completely unique, at this moment in time, I believe. Maybe it'll catch on? I hope it catches on. Let me know what you think.

slt

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><p><strong>February<em> 28, 2014<em>**

**_20:04_**

**_East China Sea off the coast of Hangzhou_**

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><p>"Clear!"<p>

The barrel of Chris Redfield's M4 swung from left to right, over sealed doors and leaking pipes, all the way down the hall. His boots squeaked on the wet grates and he kept as low to the floor as he could. His knees ached but his mind didn't know. The red flood lights were on and everything seemed drenched in blood as the emergency sirens rang on. They had stopped deafening him some time ago, and now all he heard was his own furious breathing.

He rounded a corner, his weapon out before him, _ready_. His eyes followed the spaces just above the line of metal doors, scanning the tags - _220, 221, 222..._

"Clear!" he called again to the team that followed.

* * *

><p>"<em>There's a very important... B.O.W... in one of the cells in the hull. I think... I think they threw him in 223," the scientist said as his zip-tied hands were freed.<em>

"_He's dangerous. But compliant. He's been compliant the whole time. We need him for the work - don't... don't do anything rash," another white coat added after her gag was loosed. She was hesitant, as if she regretted having to say anything at all._

_Jill Valentine narrowed her eyes at the researchers. "Anything rash? Who's the prisoner?" She pulled on the brim of her ballcap._

_They looked at each other. "He's critical to the cure," the first scientist said after a pause. "You'll understand."_

_Chris frowned, pressing the ear piece. "Kennedy-actual, come in."_

"Go ahead." _Leon's familiar voice came through the static._

_Chris glanced at the scientists, wearied. "Got some type of OGA in here. Four POGs down. Ten surrendered white coats. Situation unstable. Over."_

"Copy. My boots on deck in four minutes. How many extracts?"

_He turned to the group. "How many in hull?"_

"_Two. There's two of them down there," the second scientist said, rubbing her wrists._

* * *

><p><strong><em>February 21, 2014<em>**

**_16:43 _**

**_East China Sea off the coast of Taiwan_**

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><p>"Get it on it's knees. Get it on it's knees!" the Sergeant with the beretta said. Hurriedly, he fought with the fly of pants, his free hand slipping over and over on the button. He cursed, laughing. It was the blood - he couldn't get his pants off because his fingers were covered in blood.<p>

From the back of the cell, Piers watched the chaos playing out. He felt that he was floating above his body, seeing and not seeing. Voices were muffled, meaning obscured, and his own traitorous heart thundered in his ears. _Could he watch this? Could his conscious bear it?_

The prisoner was kicked to kneeling, his arms outstretched between two other brutish soldiers. The sinewy muscles in his bare shoulders and his whip-striped back were pulled taut as a bow. His head hung, chin to chest; a steady, sickening drip of red from his abused mouth puddling on the floor. Another man wrenched his bloodied face up by a shock of white hair so that his shame was laid out for all to see. He gasped then, choking, and sent a fine red mist to paint his own pale thighs when he exhaled.

The collar around his throat flashed, the LED light in it reminding them all of his helplessness. _"Enough juice to take down a a fucking elephant,"_ as the Sergeant had said so eloquently. They'd been taking turns beating him for well over an hour under it's protection.

Still, his prideful jaw was set against them.

Piers searched the faces of the soldiers - men who were on the _same side_ of the war on bioterrorism as he was. They yelled and laughed and taunted their prey, spittle flying from their open maws like circling wolves, their frenzied eyes bulging like vultures. They saw the god's blood as it seeped from the face they'd split... and they planned to drain him of every drop.

Everything moved in molasses, agonizingly slow. Piers had trouble breathing. He tried to adhere the frantic exchange they'd had earlier in the day...

* * *

><p>"<em>When they are finished with me..." Wesker let the notion hang in the air, no need to speak it aloud. They'd both been thinking it, after all.<em>

"_I'm one of them," Piers argued, his voice just as low. "I'm B.S.A.A. They can't."_

_Wesker's hands left warm wet prints on the glass between them. He smirked, as arrogantly as he always did, but his eyes betrayed the truth: pity. _

_Piers knew he was right. He wasn't one of them anymore... He was something wholly separate now. Already they'd betrayed the scientists. Already they'd taken over the course of the ship. It was martial law at sea, and every breath was uncertain under their far-reaching watch. "They won't do anything to me. They won't," he continued to lie._

_Wesker knelt and passed the tray of untouched slop back through the slot in the door._

_Piers reached down to take it, but enormously capable fingers wrapped around his arm. He was yanked from standing to his knees in an instant. Wesker's red eyes met his own through the slot; they glowed in his face like dying coals. Piers snorted, kicking out at the reinforced door. He felt the bones in his wrist protest and he keened._

"_Listen to me, boy... listen!" he hissed. Piers's chest was tight with mortal terror, but he stopped his resistance. The fingers loosened until they let him go altogether. He sat back, panting but silenced, his feet still pressed to the door. _

"_Do I have your attention?" Wesker asked, a whisper. Piers gathered himself and nodded. "No matter what transpires today... you are not to intervene. If you are anything at all like that idiot captain of yours, I know the thought will cross your feeble mind."_

_Piers ground his teeth together at the monster's mention of Chris Redfield, but he listened._

"_I will heal. Do you understand me? No more heroic gestures. It will cost both of us our lives."_

_Piers glanced at the camera, sweeping up and down the ward's hallway on it's mechanical arm. It was panning back to them, slowly. He cleared his throat, picking up the tray. The gruel sloshed in the compartment, a dollop splashing to the floor. _

"_You fucking piece of shit. I should kill you myself," he said then. The camera's red light blinked as it saw everything._

_Through the slot, Wesker watched him walk away._

* * *

><p>"Open your eyes, motherfucker." The soldier shook the captive to attention by the fist of hair he continued to hold.<p>

The prisoner granted them that, his serpentine eyes cracking open enough to glare through his immeasurable pain. His gaze fell squarely on Piers, admonishing. _Do not get involved_, he seemed to say in a language no one else could hear. He swallowed with some difficulty - a great mouthful of blood, tiny jagged bits of his teeth. Behind him, Sargaent's pants dropped to the floor, the clink of his belt buckle like a gun shot. In one last burst of energy, a final bid for escape or certain death, he charged.

As all of his weight pitched forward, he managed to shake the captors at his sides. One soldier fell back, stumbling, and landing hard on his back; the other lost his balance, and laughing, tripped out of the fray. The prisoner launched himself headlong into the man who had almost torn the hair out of him; the soldier's skull cracked against the sterile floor and he stayed there, blinking up at the fluorescents, his stunned mouth gaping like a fish.

It wasn't until the prisoner pushed past him, scrambling for the door, the pack of hyenas closing in, that Piers was able to rouse his courage and _act_.

He was fast - faster than any of them had expected. He so rarely used the gifts the virus had given him. The mongrel soldiers stopped in their tracks, staring with wide eyes as Piers worked over the tyrant. He grabbed Wesker by the collar and pulled him close, turning him to face their audience. In his hands, the monster tensed, heart beating as wildly as a rabbit's. Piers pushed a knee into his thighs and Wesker knelt, growling, held in close by the collar. He gagged as he went down, his hands clawing at Piers's arms.

"Let me..." Piers said. His voice was steady and measured, as cold as any man's could be. He jerked the collar and Wesker choked again, groaning and coughing. Piers looked down at him, into the monster's eyes. His own great reptilian eye reflected Wesker's terror back on him. _Trust me._ "Let me have him. I fucking deserve it."

Sergeant began to laugh, and soon all of the soldiers were braying hysterically. Laughter gave way to cheering, which gave way to a chant. Their collective thoughts of violence converged into a single sing-song catch-phrase: "Fuck him, Nivans! Fuck him, Nivans!" They cried for blood and rape and vengeance for crimes they hadn't been the victims of, nor ever would be. They didn't care at all about the search for a cure; it was the furthest thing from their minds when his blood had started to flow. They wanted only to see the monster of Umbrella torn apart.

He surveyed them, the jolly scavengers. His eyes narrowed - he had control in this moment, and he needed to maintain it. "Get out. All of you."

Sargaent's chanting slowed and tapered off. His followers looked to him, confused. He stared at Piers. "We wanna watch you tear his ass up."

Piers didn't blink. "Oh no. This is between me... and him." He mimicked the soldier's assault and pulled Wesker's head back by the hair. The bloody, silky strands slipped in between his fingers, and instead of fighting as he had before, Wesker allowed him to expose his throat. He followed Piers's lead; his long back arched in a pleasing ivory line, his eyes squeezed shut.

_Trust me._

The suddenly calm scene gave them all pause. The prisoner was of little interest unless he was fighting.

Sergeant caved. "Fair enough. We _are _gonna watch though." He pointed to the camera in the upper corner of the cell. "Give us a good show, Nivans."

Piers nodded, solemn. He pushed Wesker away then, threw him down to hands and knees. He saw Wesker's naked body shiver with exhaustion - the bumps of his spine showed through his fine skin and his narrow hips trembled with each tired breath. They'd done a number on him tonight...

The soldiers filed out of the cell, one by one, taking their last cracks at the fallen tyrant. A boot to the ribs here, a phlegmy wad of spit there. Through the last abuses, Wesker hid his face.

The door closed, the bolt locking behind them.

Wesker roared, an unintelligible sound from deep within his chest. He drove his fist into the linoleum floor. He turned then, his eyes crazed. "You stupid, stupid fool..."

Piers ignored him, adjusting the glove over his prosthetic hand. "Get up. Make it look like a fight," he said. Wesker's face dropped and he looked to the camera in the corner, warning. Piers looked too. "No mic on that one. Only out there."

Wesker crouched again, his elbows tucked in, hands over the back of his neck. "Kick me then," he ordered. And Piers obliged with an exaggerated blow. Wesker rolled over, and curled up, mock pain. "They're working on a weapon," he said, his eyes closed.

Piers approached again, grabbing the collar and lifting him all the way to his feet. "I know. I'm going to punch you. Struggle, dammit. Make it look real."

They went through each motion: his fist colliding with Wesker's face, and the recoil. Wesker struck, falsely catching him in the ribs. They let go of each other and spread apart, circling. Piers shot out with a solid right hook; Wesker dodged.

Breathless, Wesker managed, "Your fearless leader promises me that it will inflict wounds I won't be able to heal."

"Don't be so fucking cocky. They're not kidding," Piers said. "I'm gonna take you down, headlock, then Full Nelson. Got it?" He threw himself into Wesker and they tumbled to floor, hard enough to be believed from above. A brief grappling ensued; they wrestled, rolling over one another until Piers managed to wrap an arm around his throat. They fell into the padded wall, their feigned tussle flipping the solitary mattress on the floor. The collar's sharp edges bit into both of them, still Piers held on.

"It's a blade. Something in the metal. They're working on..." Wesker pretended to elbow him in the face and he paused long enough to look pained. He shook his head, as if to clear it. All the while, the camera watched. "They're working on turning it into bullets."

"Fascinating." Wesker rose up and thrust his weight back onto Piers, acting as if he was crushing him.

"Nelson. Ready?" Piers asked, the air forced from his lungs as he was flattened to the wall.

Wesker grunted and they rolled into position as if they were performing choreography.

On top of him, Piers folded his hands, fingers interlocked, over the nape of Wesker's neck, their elbows hooked. They relaxed into the hold. And for several seconds, the only sound was their labored breathing. Stretched like this, their bodies spooned; it was entirely surreal to feel such languid strength under him, surrendered - even if for show. They began to breathe together once the snorting and gasping was over. Inhale, exhale, inhale. Piers could smell the blood and salt of the monster's skin... and his own monster responded to the call.

He was betrayed by the only part of him which told the truth anymore.

Wesker's laugh rumbled beneath him, bubbling up like the terrible buried memories of years past. "Well... you've certainly made this awkward," he chaffed, his voice tormentingly smooth. Piers brought a knee up on the outside of his thigh, exacerbating the situation. Wesker laughed again, maniacal, the drying blood on his face cracking around his grin.

"Shut the fuck up," Piers said through clenched teeth.

"Is this how you and Chris begin? Hmm?"

Piers pushed his head down in the hold then, the pain suddenly very real for Wesker. "I said... shut your fucking mouth."

He complained still. "And what now?"

Piers swallowed, his fingers stretching and locking again. "Can we fake it?"

"Doubtful." Wesker turned his face as much as Piers would allow. "I warned you not to interfere." His voice was serious, the teasing gone out of it completely. "You should have just let them have me and saved both of us the trouble."

"I couldn't." The hypothetical outcome was one Piers couldn't fathom. "I couldn't do that."

They were silent for several beats. Wesker feigned a bucking under him, and Piers held tightly, the evidence of his arousal still digging into the small of Wesker's back. The camera saw it all.

"Jesus Christ..." Piers whispered. "I'm disgusting."

"Blood calls to blood," Wesker said, his body giving up. "There is no shame in it."

Piers shivered, more confused and afraid by the second. He didn't know what any of it meant... and yet he felt the pull, the connection. They were stuck here, in this hold, and there was no way to battle it.

"We have to do something," Piers said, his tone almost pleading.

Wesker chuckled, pressing his forehead to the linoleum. "You are a spitting image of _him_." _Chris Redfield. _ "No plan. No theory. No reason." His fingers curled and uncurled beside his head, elbows held out by the Full Nelson - the picture of frustration. "Let me up," he growled, annoyed.

Piers's fingers slipped apart, the hold disappearing. He pushed himself away, pushed himself up to his knees. Wesker sighed and with effort, rolled to his back. On his elbows, breathing deeply through his nose, he stared at Piers.

"You're going to beat me. I'm going to appear as if I've lost consciousness. You're going to lose interest and leave me here, bleeding. You will tell them that you prefer to rape men who are able to _feel_ it...," Wesker said, speaking as calmly as if he was reading a prompter about the weather in San Francisco. He started to move away, eventually turning over to crawl. "Grab my leg. Try to pull me back. Undo the tie of your pants," he narrated the action.

Piers followed his directives, half-heartedly yanking Wesker around by his bony ankle. They struggled on the floor for some time before Piers stood and pulled him up to his knees again, the fingers of his bionic hand digging into Wesker's throat, just below his jaw. Wesker winced. They were both exhausted. With his eyes closed, he said, "Strike me." A cough. "As hard as you possibly can."

Piers swallowed. His heart hammered away in his ribs and the blood pumped in his skull so hard that he was light-headed. He raised a fist... it wavered. He tried again, winding up almost comically. He had imagined this to be so simple - he'd fantasized about killing the man in front of him, an age ago. Stories of the hell he'd put Chris through, and the way he'd broken Jill... countless sins and betrayals and atrocities... He deserved a thousand deaths.

_But now..._

"If I were you... If I was in the very position you are in now, Nivans... I would have left you here to rot. I might even have partaken in whatever you had to offer. I would have left you choking on my semen and your own blood without a second thought..." Wesker told him the story in a measured voice. Still, Piers held the punch in the air, the snake's pupil in his mutated eye pinning with each horrible phrase. Wesker saw, and continued to provoke, easing the path to violence. "You know... my biggest regret in life, _undoubtedly_, is not having experienced destroying the inside of _his_ tight, puritanical asshole with my cock... your precious Chris Red -"

The metal knuckles smashed into his perfect cheekbone. Once, twice, and then again. Wesker's body went limp in his grasp.

Shaking, Piers held him up, supported him as best he could as he lowered his torso to the cold floor. He backed away from Wesker, gagging - his stomach empty but heaving. He recalled the crunch of Wesker's eye socket beneath his mechanical fist... recalled the soldiers who'd used an electric collar to take him to his knees for his rape. Doubled over, Piers opened his mouth and let a string of thick spit slip between his tennis shoes. He whimpered, and with a trembling hand, wiped his mouth. He tasted copper and spit again.

It was blood, covering his hands.

He kept seeing the Sergeant, standing over Wesker, unbuttoning himself... the laughter, the rage... the hopelessness.

_Was this it? Was this the humanity he'd tried to die saving? _

Piers coughed and tried desperately to collect himself. Without looking back, he pounded on the door with an open hand. "I'm finished," he yelled, as bravely as he could. He rubbed his mouth furiously, still tasting blood.

He looked up to the camera and prayed it didn't see him sick with what he'd done.

* * *

><p><strong><em>February 28, 2014<em>**

**_20:05_**

**_East China Sea off the coast of Hangzhou_**

* * *

><p>Chris stopped in front of <em>223<em>, his M4 aimed at the door. The butt of the weapon pressed into his shoulder reassuringly; the weight of it in his hands as comforting as a lover. He licked his lips and steadied himself - there was no telling what they'd find here. His life, or what was left of it, had been one big question mark since the outbreak in Lanshiang.

Behind him, most of his team aligned with their own weapons drawn, and Jill used a frenzied hand signal: _stay alert_. Around them, the emergency sirens droned on.

The keypad next to the door was lit up a Christmas red, even under the dizzying flood lights.

Chris sighed, his fingers finding his earpiece. "Kennedy."

"_Copy."_

"There's a code on this door. Get it to me. Over."

"_Wilco."_

Chris turned to look at Jill over his shoulder. Her eyes darted between him and the door. She bit her lower lip. He almost smiled to see it. She'd always done that - the nervous nibbling. It felt like the old days... the days before The End began. Their eyes met; he let his weapon relax a bit on his shoulder. And on his cue, the rest of the team took a deep breath.

"Hey! Who's out there?!"

The sound of ten panicked weapons aiming echoed in the ship's hull. Chris, his gun back in position, held his shooting hand up, his finger pointing to the source. Everyone followed his gaze down to the slot in the metal door. No one moved.

The voice on the other side waited, and hearing no reply, continued.

"My name is Piers Nivans! Lieutenant Piers Nivans of the B.S.A.A.! I'm a P.O.W.!" He paused, listening. "Can you help me?"

Chris dropped to his knees, not bothering to conceal his sob. Jill grabbed his shoulder, cautioned him, but he ignored her and thrust his gloved hand through the slot.

"Piers?" Chris called. His eyes teared up and he reached around blindly. He connected with something very warm - a chest, a shirt - and he wound his fingers in fabric, pulling it as close as he could to the slot. "Piers?" His voice had a delirious edge to it. He said the name as if it might not be real... An unreal name for an unreal person.

"Captain?" Piers almost wept with the joy of it. "Chris?"

He wrenched the clinging hand from his shirt and held it to the good side of his face. Chris's fingers felt his skin, his hair - wild, light touching, as if to memorize... or bring back to life.

Behind Chris, Jill ordered the team stand down; he was too engrossed to do it himself.

"Oh God, Piers... It's you. You're alive!" He felt down Piers's throat, then back up his shoulders. He laughed, near hysteria. "Are you hurt? Did they hurt you?"

Piers shook his head so that Chris could feel. "I'm alright. Pretty ugly now. But alright."

Chris smiled - a real, dumb-struck smile. And then he came back to the reality of it all. "We have to get you out. There's a keypad. Do you know the code?" He reluctantly pulled away; Piers's good hand followed his out, the tips of his fingers peaking through the slot as Chris stood.

"Yeah, I do... but Captain -"

"What's the code, soldier?" Chris squinted, examining the keypad.

"Captain... there's a man in here with me."

Chris nodded to himself. He wiped the condensation off the numbers. "We got the report. A B.O.W."

Piers's voice faltered.

"A B.O.W. Okay. It's fine. What's the code, Piers?" Chris tried again.

"He saved my life."

Chris stopped exploring the keypad, his hand dropping to his side. He scowled at the slot in the door. "Then he's a friend of mine. What... what are we gettin' here, Piers? Let's just get you out of this hellhole."

"Before I give you the code... you have to give me your word. You've gotta tell me that you won't do anything crazy. That you'll stay on your game." He waited, listening. "Can you do that, Captain?"

Jill shot him a very concerned look.

"Of course," Chris agreed anyway. "Of course. I don't give a fuck what he is... He saved my best man, right?"

Piers was silent on the other side of the door. After a few seconds, he replied, "5232."

Chris eagerly punched the numbers into the pad, his fingers slipping as he hurried. He stepped back as the keypad lit up a brilliant, liberating green. With his M4 slung over his shoulder, he joined his team, breath held, as the door creaked open.


End file.
